


The Girl Who Cried Wolf

by cywscross



Series: Wolf Extraordinaire [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/F, F/M, Gen, Platonic Relationships, Post-Nogitsune, Wolf Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 08:06:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6746110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a girl in the woods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Girl Who Cried Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in the works on and off for a while now and it’s finally done.

 

There’s a girl in the woods.  Stiles finds her one afternoon when he’s exploring the forest by himself. Cora was dragged out for a ‘shopping trip’ with Lydia and Kira, and she refused to suffer alone so she dragged Peter with her, and as well-known as Stiles is in certain circles these days, he’s still not allowed into really crowded human places like the ‘mall’. Not that he would want to anyway. Those places always stink of strangers and grease and sweat and frustration and-

They stink of a lot of things. Stiles would rather just stay away.

He and Peter are rarely apart but it’s better now than it used to be when Stiles first managed to track down his human-wolf. Stiles doesn’t like letting Peter out of his sight, and Peter is arguably even unhappier about it, but they _can_ , for short periods of time. It doesn’t happen often since they still like spending the majority of their time with each other, but they live so much closer together these days, and even now, Peter’s scent is strong in his nose. If Stiles wants to, he can hunt his human-wolf down anytime without trouble, and that helps a lot with letting Peter go off on his own somewhere.  If he gets himself in trouble again, Stiles can be there this time to save him.

So for this afternoon, Stiles is content to romp around the woods, still learning the lay of the land because these forests are big and vast and lovely, with a constant undercurrent of _something_ that smells like the wind right before a storm, full of static and fury, old and vast and powerful.

Magic, Stiles thinks, and this land is soaked with it.

It’s tainted though, in parts, murky like mud in water, splattered here and there, splitting off into messy trails that slowly bleed out over the rest of the town, like veins of poison gone unchecked.  Stiles should probably bring it to Peter’s attention one day soon because humans – even human-wolves and the fox-girl and the magic-man and Lydia – don’t seem to be able to sense it, or if they do, they don’t seem to want to do anything about it.

Stiles only sensed it peripherally when he first arrived, but he’s gotten a better feel for it more and more lately, especially since it’s getting stronger.  And since he has the time today, he follows one of those trails back to its source.

It’s a tree.  There’s a tree at the end of the trail.  Actually, it’s not even a tree, it’s just a stump, but there’s something about it that leaves a bad taste on Stiles’ tongue, between his teeth, at the back of his throat, like he’s eaten something rotten.  It’s rooted well, the tree, and the thickness and colour of the wood tell him that it’s both old and still very much alive.  But the taint is strongest here, a darkness that makes Stiles wary, and he can smell hunger in the air.

It’s not a human sort of hunger.  It’s not even animal.  Stiles isn’t quite sure how to describe it, only that he can identify it as _want_ , as _greed_ , mindless and desperate, and endless with an edge of insanity that makes Stiles’ hackles rise.

He circles the stump once, staying on the very edge of the clearing at all times, not wanting to venture closer when he doesn’t have to.  To his eyes, there’s nothing wrong with it.  There isn’t much sunlight that can pierce through the thick canopy up above so that would explain the shadows.

He should probably go tell Peter.  Peter understands some things – magic things – better than Stiles does.  He rounds the tree stump once more, and he’s about to turn and head back into town when a flicker of movement catches his eye.  He whirls around, fangs bared, ears flattened against his head.  He hears nothing other than the wind in the trees, smells nothing other than the scents coming from the tree itself.  There’s no heartbeat, and yet, what he just saw was distinctly human-shaped.

He looks carefully in that direction now, ready to attack or run at any given moment.  There, over there by the far tree at the edge of the clearing, dark hair that shouldn’t be there, a pale hand gripping wood, bare human feet tucked up on the branch that the person is sitting in.

Stiles growls a warning, neither retreating nor advancing.  There’s a moment of silence, and then those feet drop, legs swinging, and a face ducks down from behind the leafy foliage, wreathed in brown hair and all the whiter for it, like she hasn’t seen sunlight in months.  She’s dressed in white too, a flimsy-looking dress thing, although it doesn’t look anything like the dresses Lydia wears.

“You can see me?”  She asks, and the hope in her voice is unmistakeable.  She leaps down, her feet hitting the ground with all the noise of a feather landing, and Stiles growls again.  The human girl – a pup, he thinks, perhaps around Cora’s age – holds up her hands in a clear placating gesture.  “I don’t mean any harm.  I don’t think I could even if I wanted to.  No one can see me, animals avoid this place, and I can’t- I can’t leave this clearing.  It’s just me and the Nemeton and these trees here and you’re the first living thing I’ve seen-” Her face crumples with misery.  “-and I’m talking to a _wolf_ , oh my god I’m losing my _mind_.”

Slowly, Stiles lets himself relax, straightening a bit from his defensive crouch.  He cocks his head, watching the pup mutter to herself.  He sniffs more intently, and this time, he can pick up a whiff of… _other_.  Of magic, but _strange_ magic, and… and something a bit like death but not quite.  Actually, she smells a lot like Lydia, like life and death but the death is stronger in this pup’s scent.

Cautiously, Stiles prowls closer, and the second the pup notices, she falls silent.  She doesn’t back away but she looks a little uncertain the closer Stiles gets.  Stiles offers a wave of his tail and tries to make himself look less threatening.  It seems to work because the pup crouches down, and as Stiles gets within an arm’s length of her, she hesitates before extending one hand.

Stiles snorts at the gesture, walking right up instead and snuffling her neck before giving her a lick that makes her giggle.  She’s young but her features are tight with stress, and laughter eases some of those lines.  When she raises a hand and tentatively scratches behind one of his ears, Stiles purrs at her.

“I can touch you,” She whispers, looking delighted and teary-eyed at the same time.  “I can’t- My dad’s been by here once, and some of my friends too, but I couldn’t touch any of them.  I couldn’t even get them to hear me, and I couldn’t follow them when they left.”

Stiles peers at her and makes an enquiring noise at the back of his throat.  The pup frowns a little, studying him more closely.  “Can you- Can you understand me?  I mean I’ve seen weirder but… My friends were here to check on the Nemeton, just to- just to make sure everything was okay again…”

She trails off when Stiles cranes his head around to stare at the tree stump.  Nemeton.  He had no idea there were special names for stumps.  But it’s a magical stump so maybe magical stumps are called Nemetons.

“You _can_ understand me!”  The human girl breathes out, and Stiles turns his attention back to her.  “You can, right?”

Stiles considers her for a long moment before giving her a very human nod.  In response, her shoulders sag with relief, and she suddenly looks a lot more urgent.  “I- Okay, look, could you- do you think you could help me?  My friends, they live in this town, and they don’t know that I’m here, so they can’t work on getting me out.  I don’t know what happened to my body but I’m pretty sure it’s- _I’m_ still alive, I _am_ , I have to be, but I just- it’s the Nemeton, it’s holding me here somehow, and I’ve been here for _months_ and-”

Stiles barks at her, sharp and short to cut off the slightly crazed tumble of words, and then he rumbles out a crooning noise in his throat to soothe the frantic agitation colouring her face.  The pup obeys, taking a deep shuddering breath before letting it out again.  Stiles nudges her collarbone, looks at her, and then nudges her again.  The pup blinks, obviously confused, so Stiles huffs and backs off a bit so he has a patch of dirt to work with.  It's annoying when he has to do this but – painstakingly – he scrubs out six letters on the ground with a couple claws, **STILES**.

It’s a little lopsided because he knows his English letters but he doesn’t have much practice writing them.  Still, it’s readable, and when he looks back up, the pup is staring wide-eyed at the word.  Stiles noses at her again, and when she’s looking at him, he pats one paw beside the first S, and then brings that paw up to thump himself on the chest.

“Oh.   _Oh!_  You’re called Stiles!”  The pup exclaims, and Stiles nods before nudging her once more.  This time, she gets it.  “I’m- I’m Allison.  Allison Argent.”

Stiles cants his head again.   _Argent_.  He returns to the dirt, smudging out his name before clawing out another one.   **CHRIS**.

“Yes, yeah, that’s my dad!”  The pup – Allison – cries, nodding vigorously.  “And my friends, my friends are Lydia and Scott and Isaac and Kira.  There’s also Derek and Cora, who are part of- part of the Pack.  And- And Peter I guess-”

Stiles barks again.  Allison tilts her head.  “You… know Peter?  But if you know him, you should know the others.  Uh, you… belong to Peter?”

Stiles releases a harrumphing sound, disgruntled.  Allison grins a bit.  “Okay, not belong.  Um, you know him best?  He’s your friend?”

That’s a little better.  Stiles nods solemnly.

“Okay, well,” She pauses.  “I… I don’t really know Peter all that well I guess.  But- But he could help, if he feels like it.  Or… do you think you could go get my dad first?  I- I just- I miss my dad.”

And all at once, her face scrunches, and Stiles can smell the tears before they even leak out.  She doesn’t release more than a few whimpers, and Stiles lets her lean forward and muffle them in his fur until she can pull herself together again.

She sniffs loudly, wiping away the last of her tears with her forearm, and then she looks at Stiles, pleading and determined in equal parts.  “Please?  Anyone- Anyone will do but… but I’d rather die than stay here forever.  If- If my body’s stuck in a coma or something, maybe… maybe it’s time for them to pull the plug.  Maybe it’s the only way.  But I- I’d really like to see everybody one more time before I go.  So, please?”

And Stiles, Stiles can’t really say no to that.  He imagines being trapped in the middle of nowhere, away from Peter with no way to get back to him, and yeah, he’d rather be dead too.

He thwaps his tail next to the letters on the ground.  Allison’s face lights up with the force of her smile.  “You’ll get my dad?”

Stiles nods.  Allison throws her arms around him in the kind of hug that he’s only ever let three other people give him, but he allows it this time, for this veritable stranger, holding patiently still as she clings to him like a lifeline.

 

* * *

 

Understandably, Allison is reluctant to let him go, even if he is going to get her father.  Her fear is easy to pick up, and she keeps running fingers through his fur, nervous and repetitive, like she’s trying to memorize the feel of it so she won’t think him a hallucination after he leaves.

“You’ll come back, right?”  Allison mutters fervently, fingers tangled in his fur.

Stiles wriggles around until he can look her in the eye, and then he just stares, stares and stares and stares, until Allison manages a shaky smile, hugs him one last time, and finally lets him go with a resolute nod.

Stiles looks back once at the edge of the clearing.  And then he runs.

 

* * *

 

The thing is, Stiles knows about the Argents and the Hales and what happened between them and the aftermath.  There are no secrets between him and Peter, and Peter’s told him all about it, especially since it tied in to why he never came back for Stiles.  So he knows, and while he still doesn’t understand some human concepts, betrayal and vengeance and survival are universal.  Arguably, they belonged to animals first.

But they’re on better terms these days, the remaining Hales and Chris Argent.  Sort of.  Stiles has met Chris five times.  Three of those times were just in passing, when Stiles and Peter were grudgingly going along with the pups’ latest reckless plan, taking care of a threat, and all of them happened to be in the same place at the same time as Chris. But the Pack took off as soon as it was over, and Peter as well so Stiles went with him, leaving Chris to do the cleanup.

The other two, well, once was the very first time, which lasted long enough for Peter to smirk his way through introducing Stiles to Chris, and for Stiles to get Chris’ scent.  The man was stony-faced for the entire thing and barely spoke, but he wasn’t mean to Stiles, wasn’t much of anything to anyone, so Stiles was more or less okay with him in return.  The other time was during a pack meeting.  Everyone was there and no one was happy.  The tension was thick, and tempers were high, and nobody got along.  You put that many opinionated people in one room, with an Alpha whom no one truly respects or even fears, and that sort of mess is what you get.  The pups are a pack in the loosest sense of the word.  Some of them are friends, but mere _friends_ don’t make Pack.

Stiles didn’t make waves, still doesn’t.  He has Peter, and he sort of has Cora and Lydia, and that’s enough for him.  He isn’t part of Scott’s Pack, and he wouldn’t want to be.  He can smell the weakness on that Alpha, too young and too inexperienced and too human, for all that he’s a human-wolf now.  There are instincts there that aren’t being used, most days even actively ignored, and in the wild, Stiles knows Scott would already be dead.  Stiles will not follow a dead Alpha, and instinctively, the others sense it too.  That’s why they argue so much, why they can never agree on one plan, why – even when Scott says this is what we’ll do – some of the others will disobey and carry out their own plan, and sometimes, that means that that other plan will bail Scott and whoever followed him that time out of death and danger, and other times, it just means disaster.  _Always_ , it means hurt feelings.  Honestly, Stiles is shocked more of them haven’t been killed off yet.

Allison, he’s heard, was a victim of one such case where everyone was too distracted by their own problems or just didn’t care enough to notice their packmate was being possessed until it was too late.  Well, he didn’t know her name was Allison until today.  Peter only touched briefly on the Nogitsune so Stiles just knows that it’s been defeated and locked away, and its former host is now in the hospital.  If anyone’s mentioned her name before or who she’s related to, Stiles doesn’t remember.

He goes straight to Chris now.  It isn’t too difficult – Chris is _metaloilalcoholfiregriefexhaustion_ behind a wall of impassivity.  Stiles tracks him to one of those supermarkets that humans carry food out of every week, sticking to the shadows and avoiding humans as much as he can.  The local Sheriff knows him now, along with a few deputies and some medical personnel because Scott’s mom is one, but most of the town still isn’t aware that there’s a wolf living in Beacon Hills.

Chris is at his car.  He’s lifting bulky bags into the back when Stiles arrives, but he twitches and drops the last one, hand flying to his gun before he’s even fully turned around.

He blinks down at Stiles.  Stiles flashes his teeth in greeting.

“Oh,” Chris still smells guarded but his hand slides away from his belt.  Mostly.  “Stiles.”

They stare at each other some more.  More than anything, Stiles thinks Chris is really strange.  He’s as haggard and scruffy and tired as he was the first time they met.  He smells like he’s given up on life.  But he reacts – just the way he did right now with Stiles – like he’s still fighting tooth and nail to stick around.

He doesn’t make any sense to Stiles.  Animals that smell like Chris, they lie down and die.  They don’t fight like a cornered badger.

“Did Peter send you?”  Chris finally asks, shifting his weight to face Stiles.  “Did something happen?”

Stiles shakes his head.  Pauses, and then nods.  Chris’ brow furrows.  “He didn’t send you.  But something happened.”  Stiles nods again.  “Then shouldn’t you go to Peter?”

Stiles shakes his head.  He gets up and pads forward, eyeing the hand that Chris has hovering near his gun again but not stopping.  He gets close enough to nudge at Chris’ knee, and then he walks away again, pausing and looking back once he’s five steps out.  He walks another five, and then stops and looks back again.

Chris’ hand drops from his gun at last.  “You want me to follow you?”

Stiles nods.   Chris’ frown deepens.  “Wouldn’t Peter be able to help you more?”

Stiles sighs.  Oh come _on_.  He barks urgently at the man, turns, walks five steps, stops, turns back.  Then he barks again.

Chris… stares at him.  Again.  Stiles shakes out his fur this time before snarling, once, low and impatient.  Chris goes stiff, his shoulders hitching up like an animal about to bolt, but then he looks at his car, at his groceries, and then at Stiles again.

He heaves a sigh, picking up the bag he dropped and stashing it away before locking the vehicle. “Alright.  Lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

Going back takes about twenty minutes longer than it took Stiles to reach Chris, but considering the fact that he thought it would take at least double that, Stiles won’t complain.  It helps that Chris is a hunter, and he keeps up relatively easily with Stiles’ shambling pace.  He’s silent the entire trip.  He doesn’t waste breath asking things like where they’re going or when they’ll get there.  He’s noisier than Stiles, especially once they reach the forest line, but he’s still better than some of the human-wolf pups in Scott’s Pack.  Including Scott.

Stiles knows the exact moment when Chris catches on to where they’re going.  There’s a bit of a stutter in his step before it resumes its steady stride.  He still doesn’t say anything though.

They enter the clearing with the stump.  The Nemeton.  And almost immediately, Allison flocks over to them, a flash of white in the shadows, her relief at the sight of them almost a physical entity around her.

“Stiles!  Dad!”  She calls out, skidding to a halt in front of them.  The grass behind her isn’t even bent where her footsteps should’ve been.

Stiles twitches an ear in greeting but most of his focus is on Chris, who doesn’t react whatsoever.  He doesn’t look at Allison at all, even when she touches his arm.  Instead, he glances briefly at the Nemeton before turning to Stiles.  “That’s the Nemeton.  Is something wrong with it?”

Very much yes.  But that isn’t why they’re here right now.  Stiles makes a _pay-attention_ noise before pushing at Allison until she obliges and kneels down, and then he rears up and rests his paws on her thigh.

He looks back up at Chris.  Who is staring at the good half foot of space between Stiles’ forepaws and the forest floor.  “What-” He mutters, and then waves a quick hand in front of Stiles’ nose.  Stiles watches it go right through Allison’s shoulder and chest.

“I told you,” She sighs wistfully.  “He can’t see me or hear me or touch me at all.”

Stiles lays his muzzle on her shoulder for a moment before glancing up at Chris again.  The hunter’s eyes are narrowed, and there’s more suspicion than confusion in his scent.

“What’s there?”  Chris enquires in a tense tone of voice.  “Is it dangerous?”

Once again, Stiles finds a patch of dirt.  He’s writing a lot today.  Peter would be proud.  As swiftly as he can, he spells out a wobbly, **ALLISON**.

He looks up.  Chris’ face has bleached white, almost as pale now as his daughter, and he stares at the letters like he doesn’t understand them at all.  The man swallows, opens his mouth, and then closes it and swallows again.

“Dad?”  Allison ventures softly even though he can’t hear her.  She stands up and drifts closer, but as if on cue, the hunter’s gaze snaps up and pins a glower on Stiles.

“What is this?”  He snaps, and for a split second, he sounds on the verge of hysteria before his voice flattens out to a strict monotone again.  “What’s the meaning of- What’s my daughter got anything to do with-”

Once more, Stiles rears up on his hind legs, except this time, he goes up and up and up until he can balance his front paws on Allison’s shoulders.  The pup stumbles with his weight, but then she braces her feet and holds it.  She’s stronger than she looks, although that’s not saying much.  She looks as if a strong gust of wind would blow her away.

Chris _stares_.  Stiles can see the whites of his eyes, bloodshot and terrible.  He does that swallow-open-mouth-close-mouth-swallow thing again, and then he swipes his hand through Allison’s torso before grinding out, “Are you trying to tell me that… that _my daughter is here?_ ”

 _Finally._  Stiles pushes off gently and thumps back onto the ground.  He nods emphatically.

Chris makes this choking noise like he can’t breathe, and Allison’s face creases with concern, but then her father sucks in a shaky breath and demands, “Why is she here?  How can she be- She _can’t_ be.  She’s at the hospital!  I just- I just visited her this morning!”

“For my fourteenth birthday,” Allison cuts in abruptly.  “I wanted tickets to go watch Twilight.”  She looks momentarily revolted, and she smells incredibly embarrassed, moon only knows why, although in this context, Stiles guesses she doesn’t mean dusk.  “Tell him that.  Please.  Nobody else should know except him.  And Mom but- Just tell him.”

Stiles whuffs with exasperated agreement.  He erases her name and studies the dirt for a moment before scratching out, **14 BIRTHDAY** , and then, underneath, **TWILIGHT**.

There.  Surely that’s enough.

He looks at Chris.  Yup, definitely enough, because the hunter’s dropped down to crouch beside them, and suddenly he’s lunging forward wildly in Allison’s direction like he thinks he could catch her if he does it quickly enough, only to pass right through her, thudding to the ground heavily enough to make Allison wince even as he comes to a skidding halt.

“Dad-”

A great, heaving sob wracks the hunter’s entire body even as he pushes himself into a sitting position again, and ah, there’s the lie-down-and-die creature Stiles has been looking for.  He doesn’t cry but his eyes aren’t quite dry either, and he keeps making these stifled, agonized whines deep in his throat, little _hurt-hurt-it-hurts-make-it-stop_ noises that Stiles can only make out because he’s a wolf.

“I can’t- I can’t lose-” The man gasps out like his lungs have stopped working, a shattered sort of desperation painted across his face, and then Allison’s bursting into tears, panic and sorrow souring the air, and just, _for Mother Moon’s sake_.

Stiles springs forward, taking the hunter completely off-guard as he slams into Chris’ chest and bowls him right over so that he’s flat on his back, and then Stiles just flops down, just like that, throwing his entire weight on top of the human like a very heavy blanket.

Like he does for Peter when Peter has a nightmare and needs to be physically anchored down by someone his wolf deems safe, needs to be reminded that _he’s_ safe, and nobody falls into that category except Stiles.

This isn’t quite the same situation but humans aren’t as instinctual about who they submit to either, so, well.  Chris fights him for maybe three seconds before going completely limp.  Then he just lies there underneath Stiles and breathes, unevenly at first, like he’s just run all the way across town and back while being chased by a mountain lion, but with every breath he takes, his heartbeat calms until each inhale and exhale come and go as smoothly as Stiles’.  Only then does Stiles clamber off of him to let him up.

Chris sits up slowly, a slouch to his spine even after he’s upright again.  He props his arms up on his knees, and his head hangs for a moment before he finally looks up, first at Stiles, then all around them, red-rimmed eyes skimming over Allison twice.

“Where is she?”  He croaks.

Stiles shuffles over to where Allison is hovering anxiously next to her father.  Chris reaches out like he just can’t help himself, and Allison closes her own hands around the appendage like _she_ can’t help herself either.

“She’s really here?”  Chris asks roughly, scrubbing a palm over his face.  “Why?  She’s- Her body’s stuck in a coma at the hospital.  Why is she here?”

“I don’t know,” Allison answers, looking between her father and Stiles.  “All I remember is that one moment we were extracting the Nogitsune from me- Do you know what happened?  I just remembered I never got around to explaining- Oh good, you do.  So anyway, one moment the Nogitsune was being ripped from my mind, and then I remember losing consciousness, but when I woke up, I was here.”

Stiles grumbles to himself but sets out to explain this in the simplest way possible.   **EXTRACT FOX / UNCONSCIOUS / WAKE UP HERE**.

And then, before Chris can ask, Stiles trots off towards the edge of the clearing at a limping run, only to pull up short very abruptly right before he passes the treeline, staggering back like he’s hit a wall.  He turns to Chris, who nods sharply.  “She can’t leave this clearing.”

Stiles nods back, pleased, and returns to sit beside them.

“And nobody could interact with her,” Chris continues briskly.  “Until you came here.”

Stiles nods once more.  Chris swallows hard and then clears his throat.  “Okay.  Okay, we’ll figure this out.  I- Can she hear me?”

Stiles snuffles an affirmative so the hunter turns back in the general direction of his daughter, gaze settling somewhere above her left shoulder.  “Ally, sweetheart, I’ll figure this out.  I’m so sorry we didn’t realize you were here all along.  But I’ll- I’ll go to Peter, to Deaton, to whoever I need to to get you out of here, okay?  Just stay strong, and I swear to you I’ll figure out a way.”

Allison is smiling again, soft and sweet and so full of love, and yeah, maybe Stiles can understand why Chris fights so hard to stay alive after all, beating back his depression and grief and increasing despair time and time again.  There’s a steel in him now that Stiles has never seen before in this human, and a ferocity that says if there isn’t a way to save his daughter, then Chris will _make_ a way.

If nothing else, Stiles can respect that.

“Tell him I’m not going anywhere,” Allison murmurs.  “Tell him to take care of himself too though.  He looks awful.  And tell him I- Tell him I’m still so proud of us.”

There’s a weight in those last words, like they extend so much further than just the meaning on the surface.  Stiles gives her a long look before sighing and scribbling it all out.  His paw is beginning to cramp but he does it.

It makes Chris smile.  Even laugh a bit, a huff of a sound that lasts about half a breath, but it’s genuine.  He gets up, dusting off his pants.  And then he squats down in front of Stiles, and even though he doesn’t say it, the gratitude could not be more transparent.  “Could you stay with her?  I’m going to go find Peter and the others, tell them- tell them where Allison is.  I’ll be back as soon as I can.  I can bring books to research here just as easily, so could you wait with her?”

Stiles pins him with a critical look before shrugging under his fur and lying down on his belly.  Chris nods, and for a moment, he looks like he’s tempted to touch Stiles, maybe pet him or something, but in the end, he keeps his hands to himself and rises to his full height again.

He doesn’t waste time.  He glances once more around the clearing, lingering on the general area where Allison is standing, and then jogs away, disappearing between the trees.

Allison comes over and sits down beside Stiles, nestling into his side.  She doesn’t know that aside from Peter, Cora, and Lydia, nobody is allowed to do that.

“If Dad hasn’t given up,” Allison muses out loud with something like wonder as she presses her cheek into Stiles’ fur.  “I suppose I can’t either.”

Stiles purrs his agreement.

 

* * *

 

“How do you get yourself into these situations?”  Peter complains as soon as he appears in the clearing with a bag full of books slung over one shoulder.

Stiles barks indignantly at his human-wolf.  He does _not_ ‘get himself into these situations’.  One, he’s never found other spirit-girls before; this is the first time.  And two, if Stiles _does_ happen to find himself in rather troublesome situations, it’s because _Peter_ gets him into them, thank you very much.

Peter rolls his eyes dramatically but he doesn’t get to retort before Scott bursts into the clearing and shouts, “Allison!”

This time, even Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Scott, pipe down!”  Lydia snaps, marching in like she owns the clearing, and beside Stiles, Allison perks up.  “She’s not deaf!”

She sweeps up to Stiles and then drops to her knees without so much as a passing thought for her skirt.  She rubs her cheek in Stiles’ fur, and then glances left and right before arching a questioning eyebrow at him.  Only Stiles can see the way her hands are trembling in her lap.

Stiles pokes his nose against Allison’s shoulder, and Lydia immediately lifts her gaze so that she’s approximately eye-level with Allison.

Stiles blinks when Allison extends a hand and brushes fingers over Lydia’s cheek.  Oh.   _Oh._

He warbles out a few teasing snickers, and then yelps in protest when Lydia flicks his nose with a painted fingertip without actually looking away from Allison.

“I miss you,” Lydia says, and her words are rushed enough to make it sound as if she just blurted them out without planning to, which is rare for her.  “I visit you every day, but apparently it was just your body.  Not that you aren’t nice to look at, but really, you haven’t been much of a conversationalist.  Like, at all.”

Allison splutters out a wet laugh so Stiles echoes it with a wolfy grin of his own, one that Lydia interprets correctly, and her shoulders lose their apprehensive rigidity.

“Allison?”  Scott interrupts, no longer yelling, and much more timidly this time.  The pup edges closer, and Allison instantly stiffens, shifting uncomfortably.  There’s history there, and a whiff of Scott’s scent alone tells Stiles a story.  Longing after a lost love, obsessively, saccharinely sweet in Stiles’ nostrils.  He sneezes, and Allison looks a second away from cringing too so Stiles peels his lips back and bares all his teeth at Scott, hostile and intimidating.

Scott comes to a stop, looking crestfallen.  “I just- Is she okay?”  He can’t seem to make up his mind over whether to look at Lydia or Stiles as he talks even though it’s Stiles who can interact with Allison.  “I mean, other than being a- a spirit, is she alright?”

Stiles nods curtly.  He flicks a look to the side where the fox-girl, Kira, is standing.  She’s hanging back near the treeline, eyes doggedly averted as she helps Isaac spread out a picnic blanket on the grass, presumably so that the books won’t acquire grass stains.

Kira isn’t Pack.  But she went out and killed two rabbits for him once, on a cold rainy day when his stupid leg was aching and he was irritated with everyone and everything because the former wouldn’t shut up and the latter plain _existed_ to rouse his temper, and he was hungry but didn’t want to eat any of that disgusting human-processed meat Peter kept trying to coax down his throat.  To be fair, Peter was about to go out and hunt something down for him too, but Kira beat him to it, and nobody even asked her to.

She’s genuinely kind in a way that isn’t quite the same as Scott’s brand of kindness, in a way Scott – and the rest of them – doesn’t know how to be.  She’s here because she honestly wants to help Allison, despite her boyfriend still being so hung up on the girl, and she doesn’t deserve to be treated like this.

So Stiles leaps to his feet, stalks past Lydia, and snarls at Scott, deep and guttural and vicious in a way no mere domesticated canine could manage, and the pup playing at Alpha stumbles back, bewildered even as his eyes reflexively bleed red to challenge Stiles right back.  Stiles snarls again, stiff-legged and unblinking and not at all intimidated, and there is no human-wolf in the vicinity now who doesn’t understand what Stiles is getting at.

Except Scott because this pup has raised suppressing his wolf to a moon-damned art form.

“Oh for _god’s sakes_ ,” Cora bites out scathingly even as she storms past both of them towards Kira.  “You’re a fucking idiot, McCall.  Kira, come help me with the next load of books.”

The mention of Kira at least seems to snap Scott out of it, because suddenly, he looks a lot guilty, and he whirls to face his girlfriend but she’s already being hustled away.

Peter scoffs derisively, loping over to Stiles’ side and rubbing fingers through his scruff.  “Come along, Stiles.  Musty old books await your unwavering attention.”

Stiles snaps his teeth together right next to Peter’s hand.  Peter just smirks and scratches under his chin.

Stiles does not melt.  He _doesn’t_.

The next few minutes are spent settling everyone around the clearing, although – conspicuously – nobody ventures particularly close to the Nemeton, and it doesn’t even seem to be a conscious choice on anyone’s part.  Scott, after a moment of indecision and another lingering glance at where Lydia is sitting with Allison, scurries off after Kira with an absurd hangdog expression.

Stiles kind of hopes Cora will rip the boy-Alpha’s face off.  Because this is one of those human concepts that Stiles doesn’t understand.  Wolves only have one mate, for life.  Serial monogamists, Peter once called them, and he told Stiles that most born human-wolves – though certainly not all – are much the same, that it’s possible for arranged mates to part ways on friendly terms if one or the other finds their actual mate, or that even if they choose another mate after their first has passed on, it is for safety reasons only, to strengthen or stabilize the pack with an alliance or another packmate, and that, well, Stiles can understand that.  Pack is important after all, and if taking another mate means keeping Pack safe, then alright, Stiles would do it too.

Bitten human-wolves on the other hand take after their human side when it comes to love.  They can have multiple mates.  They can bed mates that don’t mean anything to them.  They can mate with one person but still desire another.  They can _cheat_ on their mates.  Stiles just… _does not understand_.  Things like multiple mates, well, perhaps, if all those mates have a large enough amount of love to share with each other.  If they’re happy that way.  Then, okay.  It’s not for _him_ but it might be for other people.  For wolves who are also humans.

However, Stiles has never heard of a mate who doesn’t mean anything to their significant other, or a wolf who will settle for one mate while their heart yearns for another.  They would rather be alone.  And he can’t even _begin_ to understand ‘cheating’.  Adultery, as Peter taught him, even pointing out the word in a dictionary once.  It has no equivalent in Wolf because why would any wolf cheat?  Is it supposed to be _fun_ to hurt one’s mate like that?  It doesn’t serve any purpose that Stiles can think of so why do it at all?  At the very least, one should break it off with a former mate – Stiles shudders at the very thought – before taking a new one.  That at least would hurt a little less in the long run.  He knows betrayal, because there _are_ wolves who turn on their pack, even wolves who abandon their pups after the loss of their mate, but no wolf in existence save those lost to madness would betray their mate outright.

Human desires are complicated, Peter concluded for him.  Human love is different.  But how different can it be?  Love is simple.  Love is loyalty and companionship and trust.  Love is a lot like Pack, except _more_.  And Stiles has never faltered in his devotion to Pack, not once.

But at the end of the day, he is a wolf.  Perhaps human desires will never make any sense to him, and he thinks that’s perfectly fine.  Stiles himself has never had a mate, and he can’t really see himself looking for one anytime soon because he has Pack, he has _Peter_ , loyalty and companionship and trust, and for him, that’s more than enough.  He certainly isn’t particularly interested in pups of his own at the moment.  But if – one day – he does find a mate, he is so very glad that he won’t ever have to wonder whether or not they will betray him the way two-legger mates might with each other.

He’s prompted out of his thoughts when Peter kneels down in front of him and cradles his head with warm hands, blue eyes searching Stiles’ face with unspoken concern.  Stiles licks his chin in return, and Peter quirks a smile before sitting down, stretching out his legs so that Stiles can sprawl on top of them.

Chris’ arrival makes both of them look up, and not just them either, but the hunter doesn’t really seem to register the attention.  Instead, he scans the clearing before accurately honing in on where Lydia’s seemingly chatting to thin air, talking about school and the latest fashion trends and how their favourite gelato place has gone out of business.

Chris makes a beeline over to them.  Stiles leaves them to it and prods at Peter until his human-wolf cracks open the first text.  The others trickle in and settle down in groups.  Kira comes back with Scott walking beside her, and she’s smiling so that’s good.  Although Cora’s on their heels and she’s scowling, so maybe not so good.

Two-leggers.   _Honestly_.  So much drama.

 

* * *

 

They spend the rest of the day keeping Allison company and pouring over barely legible books, trying to find a connection between spirits and Nemetons and Nogitsunes.  Stiles reads up on what a Nemeton is.  And he tries to do some research but the stump – the _Nemeton_ – keeps distracting him.  Its taint is so… _thick_ , like the pollution that put a cough in Stiles’ chest for months on end – on and off, season after season – when he was still on the road, trying to find Peter.

He doesn’t like it.  It reminds him of darker times that he’d rather forget.

Peter notices his restlessness of course.  His glances become more frequent, until finally, Stiles’ stomach gurgles with hunger, and his human-wolf takes the opportunity to pack up, attracting the clearing’s attention.

“It’s far past dinnertime,” Peter announces, rising to his feet.  “Stiles and I will be going now.”

“What?  But Stiles is the only one who can see Allison!”  Scott protests.

Peter arches a contemptuous eyebrow at him.  “And?  Are you saying he should stay here and not be allowed to leave?”

Scott falters.  “Well, I mean- if he’s the only one who Allison can communicate with, then it wouldn’t be fair to leave her alone.”

Peter’s lip curls.  “And it would be fair to force Stiles to remain here?”

“We’re not forcing him!”  Scott denies.  “Just… he should stay until we figure this out.”

Peter looks almost amused by the boy-Alpha’s circular argument.  Almost.  Mostly, he just looks like he wants to rip Scott’s intestines out.  So like usual.  “And who’s going to make him?”

“Well, _you_ could-”

“He isn’t my _pet dog_ ,” Peter snarls.  “A fact that many of you seem to forget time and again.  Stiles does what he wants.  And I’m the last person you should be appealing to on behalf of a couple of _Argents_.”

“I don’t mean-” Scott looks around somewhat helplessly, side-eyeing Stiles a few times.

Stiles snorts and scuffs his front claws in the grass for a moment before hoisting himself onto his feet.  His right foreleg twinges from staying in the same position for so long.  He hates the physical hindrance, but Peter hates it even more, he _still_ gets that acrid scent of guilt on him, so Stiles does his best to hide exactly how much pain still lingers in his crippled limb.

Scott doesn’t really talk to him, not the way Cora does or the way Lydia and even Kira have learned to.  He talks _about_ him, _around_ him, but rarely ever _to_ him, and even then it’s awkward.  It’s like most of him really does think Stiles only has an animal’s level of intelligence, and a particularly _dumb_ animal at that, but at the same time, he’s also too scared of either Stiles or Peter – or both – to use that demeaning baby voice that Scott and most other two-leggers like to use to coo at tame and some not so tame animals with on Stiles.

The latter is worth putting up with how aggravating the former can be at times.

Without sparing Scott a glance, Stiles lopes off to where Allison is watching everything with a faint frown.  He winds around Chris and squirms into the space between Lydia and Allison, climbing partway onto the spirit-pup.  He sticks his nose into Allison’s hair, snuffling at the scent of grass and death and green apples, which makes her laugh and push half-heartedly at him before resigning herself and giving him a hug instead.

For someone he just met earlier that day, Stiles likes her.  But he doesn’t like her enough to stick around this place all night.  He’ll be back in the morning anyway.

Allison seems to understand this because when she pulls back, she just smiles and gives his ear a scratch.  “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

Stiles nods, steps back onto flat ground, and puts a paw on Lydia’s knee.  Lydia smooths a hand down his back.  “Goodnight, Stiles.”

Stiles trots off and does the same with Cora, who grants him a kiss on the forehead before going right back to glowering at Scott.  Stiles leaves her to it and makes his way back to Peter.  This time, nobody says anything as they take their leave.

 

* * *

 

They get home before Peter says anything.

“Alright,” He sits down on the couch with a mug of tea for himself and a bowl of water for Stiles, and Stiles joins him once he’s wiped his feet off on the front mat and shaken stray twigs and leaves out of his fur in the mudroom.  “What’s got you so nervous?”

Stiles snorts at him.  Peter’s eyes narrow.  “Don’t front with me; you were out of sorts the entire time we were in that clearing.  Now spit it out.”

Stiles huffs.  He thumps his tail against the sofa once before turning to stare out the window at the tree outside.  Peter follows his gaze.  “The Nemeton?  What’s wrong with the Nemeton?”

What isn’t wrong?  Stiles growls, deceptively soft.  Peter’s frown deepens.  “It’s hungry?  And it’s drawing in-” Stiles snaps his jaws.  Realization dawns in Peter’s eyes.  “-outsiders.  Danger.  Monsters.”

Stiles nods, settling back down.  As relatively easily as a few other people can interpret what he says nowadays, nobody understands him as quickly and thoroughly as his human-wolf does.

Peter hums, more grim than thoughtful.  “I already knew that, more or less.  I told you about the ritual that Scott and Allison used to find their parents, didn’t I?  Since the darach took them?”

Stiles mulls over that one.  He vaguely remembers it, that it was Scott and somebody, but… he supposes Allison’s name didn’t stick.  Mostly, he just remembers that there was an important evil ritual being carried out by another of Peter’s nephew’s psychotic mates.

(That right there.  Another reason why one shouldn’t bed someone just because they have a pretty face.)

“Well, it woke the Nemeton,” Peter continues.  “And it released the Nogitsune that was trapped there.”

This is news to Stiles.  All he was told was that the fox spirit came and possessed one of them.  He lets an irritated noise roll through his throat before lilting it up inquisitively.

Peter shrugs, disdain flitting at the corners of his lips.  “You know what the pups are like, Stiles.  They don’t take the initiative.  We’ve had everything from vampires to trolls to the Unseelie Court in the past months, and it’ll only get worse, but they only _react_.  They won’t take the pre-emptive strike.  They won’t kill an enemy before the enemy hurts them first; most of the time, they won’t even kill an enemy _after_ the enemy hurts them first, because it isn’t _right_ , because it won’t make them the _good guys_ , and as much as it pains me to say this, it isn’t even all because of little Scotty’s morals, though that does play a large part in it.  But it’s also because they simply _don’t know how_.  Most of them were raised human.  Half of them were born human.  And humans are…” He smiles but it’s a humourless little thing.  “-too civilized.  Too domesticated.  Too soft.  They aren’t born knowing how to survive anymore, not truly.  They can barely handle the scuffles they find themselves in.  Things like nature’s most basic laws, the necessity of a hunt to weed out enemies before those enemies tear out our throats, the certainty that comes with the knowledge that nothing is more important and reliable than our own, and so _we will protect our own no matter the cost_ – they don’t understand any of that anymore.  To them, it’s wrong.  They don’t feel it, that desire to protect our own above all else, even if it means getting blood on our hands.  Their pack bonds are nowhere near strong enough for that, if they exist at all.  Remember what I told you about two of Derek’s packmates?  They walked away from their Alpha and none of them felt a thing.  There were no pack bonds there.  And later, McCall let their murderers go free.  The few who did die didn’t die by any of our hands.  The rest said they were sorry, promised not to do it again, and McCall-” Peter laughs, bitter and harsh.  “-McCall lapped it up.  He loves that sort of thing, especially when he thinks he’s responsible for their reformed ways.  That they’ve all turned over a new leaf because of him.”  He laughs again, an awful forced thing as he shakes his head.  “And Derek, Derek’s been looking for redemption since he got most of our entire family killed.  A way to alleviate all that self-pity and guilt and self-loathing he’s been carrying around for years.  And of course, Scott McCall is absolution personified.  But only when he feels you deserve it.  If he doesn’t, well, God help you because no one else will.  So my dear nephew clings to that boy.  He forgets that our shining beacon of righteousness once sold Derek out to the father of our family’s murderer – a nasty piece of work, Gerard – but Scott never even apologized for it.  Hypocrisy at its finest.  I’d admire the sheer gall of it if it didn’t disgust me so much.”

Peter falls silent, hands white-knuckled around his tea mug, mouth a thin, cynical slash across his face.  Stiles is quiet too.  He stares out the window, at the forest that surrounds their den, at the dark horizon beyond.  Then he looks back at Peter.  Just looks.

Peter leans back with a tired chuckle.  “Yes, I know.  Not even just us.  No one in this town will survive if we don’t do something.  But the pups refuse to be anything but ignorant of just how much trouble they’re already in, they bring new meaning to the phrase ‘out of sight, out of mind’, and they won’t believe any warning I give them.  Well, Cora would.  Lydia might.  But even they won’t be able to convince Scott to _do_ anything about it, and if he won’t act, most of the others won’t either.  And asking Deaton for assistance is a waste of breath.”

Stiles sits up on his haunches.  He growls again, very softly.  Peter looks at him, a faint smile touching his lips.  One of his hands come up to tangle into Stiles’ scruff.  “If it comes down to it, of course we’ll leave first.  Cora would come too.  Lydia might not.  And I can’t decide if taking Derek is worth the hassle but Cora would probably convince me to stuff him in the trunk at the very least if he won’t come willingly.  But we’ll leave if the situation gets that dire.  Pack first.”

Stiles relaxes.  He still shoots Peter a pointed look.  Peter sighs, but he only slides his tea onto the coffee table before clambering to his feet.  “We’ll see, Stiles.  I don’t even know where we’d begin.  Now come on, I need to start on dinner, and you need to catch a few rabbits before they all go to sleep and you can’t find any.”

Stiles sniffs.  That was one time, and he _knows_ he couldn’t find any because there _weren’t_ any in the area.  Not because they all went to sleep.  That’s just silly.

He jumps down off the couch and hurries for the door all the same, Peter’s laughter – much more amused and happier than before – trailing after him.

 

* * *

 

Over the course of the next month, Scott’s Pack and Chris and Peter and Stiles set up something of a rotation.  Chris is there a lot, whether it’s someone else’s turn or not, but even he needs to go home once in a while, and Lydia shows up more often than most too.  Stiles takes a shift at least once every other day so Peter does too, however reluctantly.  The others take turns.

Peter never likes it when he has to share a shift with Chris.  Admittedly, he doesn’t like sharing shifts with anybody except Stiles and Cora, and he goes out of his way to avoid Scott and Derek, but he tends to sit in moody silence whenever Chris is there too.  Stiles knows why, obviously, with all their shared history.  But it also makes him wonder why Peter’s helping at all.

“I owe Allison something of a debt, you could say,” Peter murmurs to him during one of their rotations by the Nemeton.  They’re on one side of the clearing while Chris is on the other, Allison sitting beside him.  Peter’s lips twist like he’s tasted something sour.  “As much as it pains me to admit, she had nothing to do with her family’s crimes, but back when I was still Alpha and more than a little feral, I suppose I… well, I didn’t care.  It certainly doesn’t excuse her behaviour when she was following Gerard’s orders but…” He shrugs with deliberate nonchalance.  “I’m not particularly in the habit of traumatizing teenage girls, Stiles, no matter what the others think of me.  And being stuck in limbo the way she is isn’t a fate even I would wish on most people.”

That, Stiles can certainly agree with.  He noses at Peter’s neck to cheer him up before returning to the book they’re currently perusing with renewed determination.  Peter’s debts are his debts – that’s what Pack means.

Peter’s fingers tangle in his scruff, and Stiles can smell something like gratitude mixing with the usual affection in his human-wolf’s scent.

Another day goes by, with nothing to show for their efforts.  Peter packs up but Stiles gets to his feet, shakes out his fur, and then trots over to where Chris and Allison are sitting.  Well, sitting and floating.

They both look up at Stiles’ approach, though only Chris tenses up, not as much as usual but enough for Stiles to notice.  Stiles snorts and turns his focus on Allison, coming to a stop in front of her and letting her scratch behind his ears.

“I never got around to asking,” Allison muses thoughtfully.  “But… what exactly are you?  Some kind of supernatural wolf?  Or a human stuck in wolf form?”

Stiles snuffles his amusement, although it’s interesting how Allison is the first and only one out of Scott’s entire pack who’s asked him that.

 **JUST A WOLF** , he paws out in the dirt.

Allison’s head tilts to read it before she shakes her head with a bemused quirk of her lips.  “I doubt that, but okay.  You’ll be back tomorrow?”

Stiles nods, scrubs out the lettering on the ground, allows Allison to hug him goodbye, and then lopes back over to where Peter is waiting for him at the treeline.

His human-wolf sighs, but he also scrubs a hand over Stiles’ head before leading the way back to the main road.

 

* * *

 

In the end, the answer is simple and only takes another few weeks to find, buried in the dusty depths of one of the tomes that escaped the Hale fire.  Peter discovers it – _of course he does_ , Stiles preens – and Stiles listens carefully to every last detail of the magical mumbo-jumbo his human-wolf tells him, complete with familiar pacing and hand gestures, and it all boils down to the Nogitsune wanting to ensure that it would never be locked away in the Nemeton again.

Unfortunately, because it still had a connection to the magical tree (stump) despite its short-lived freedom, that meant someone else had to take its place, and who better than the human it was riding around in.

The solution to freeing Allison is also relatively simple – give the Nemeton something else to cling to.  Or in this case, something _back_.

“It’s dying,” Peter tells him in private, expression as grave as his words.  “You were right.  It’s been used to commit too much evil, used to exhaustion, and now it’s just trying to survive by leaching energy from anything it can get its roots into.  The Nogitsune’s been sustaining it for decades.  Allison for a few months.  If both sources are severed from it, it’ll just start taking from the town itself.  People would start dropping dead.  I’d give it less than a century before Beacon Hills would be a ghost town.  Never mind the fact that I don’t know how to just sever the connection, but it would be simpler to give the Nemeton something to feed from.  Until even that energy supply runs out of course.”

It makes Stiles feel sorry for the Nogitsune.  Peter says it was only trapped in the first place because the kitsune that summoned it for revenge changed her mind and forced the Nogitsune to pay for it.  But the world has never been a fair place, and Stiles actually likes Allison enough to want to see her freed.

So Peter brings the information to the others, and everyone goes to the magic-man – Deaton – for the Nogitsune.

That’s when the simple solution becomes not so simple.

“‘Too dangerous’,” Peter snorts once he’s slammed his way into the house and toed off his shoes.  “‘It’s too dangerous to release the Nogitsune again on the mere off-chance that the Nemeton will latch on to the stronger energy source’.  ‘No guarantee that it won’t take it and keep Allison’.  ‘No guarantee that it won’t go on a rampage’.  ‘A True Alpha wouldn’t risk it’.  A hundred and one reasons to prevent us from going ahead with this plan.  And worst of all of course – Scott McCall _listens_.  The one man he shouldn’t listen blindly to and he _does_ , even when it comes to his _first love_.  Why I ever bit that stupid little boy-”

Stiles licks him.  Peter’s already thrown himself on the couch in a sprawl of frustrated tension so it’s easy for Stiles to jump up and flop on top of his human-wolf before giving him a facewash.

Peter growls and shoves half-heartedly at him, which doesn’t actually do anything to dislodge Stiles, but it does serve to drain most of the seething ire out of Peter’s body.

“I wouldn’t normally care,” Peter finally says, head thumping back against the back of the sofa, eyes shutting with something like exhaustion.  “But I don’t like leaving a job unfinished.  And Deaton is wrong.  A True Alpha – a _good_ Alpha – _would_ do it.  They would risk everything for a packmate.  There is never anything more important than Pack.  But he’s a druid, he’s all about the greater good.  And even that’s debateable when it comes to Alan Deaton.  And Scott wants to be a hero, not an Alpha.”  He scoffs out a humourless laugh.  “Deaton plays him like a fiddle and the fool doesn’t even notice.  I suppose I should be grateful Scott hasn’t already said yes and pulled the plug on the girl.  Then again, that might have been because Argent was about three seconds away from putting a bullet in both their heads.  And Scotty’s always had a soft spot for Allison.  To a point.  I guess we’ll see how far that point goes tomorrow.  We’re supposed to meet up at our friendly neighbourhood vet’s to discuss our options again.”

Stiles studies him for a while, a solemn figure slumped in whitewashed silence.  His human-wolf gets like this on occasion, tired, defeated, _resigned_ , by everything life’s thrown at him, random unpredictable moments that Stiles hates each and every time.  He’s a wolf so he knows – the moment you let life walk all over you, the moment you let it win and you stop getting back up, is the moment you’re as good as dead.

Luckily, Peter has Stiles.  And Stiles knows survival better than anyone.  A dog with a bone, one might say, even though he’d bite anyone who called him something that domestic.

He watches Peter for a moment longer.  Then he applies pressure, and with his paws already resting on the man’s thigh, Stiles’ claws poke right into denim-covered flesh.

Peter yelps and bats at his nose.  Stiles sneezes at him and digs his claws in even more insistently.  He’s careful not to draw blood of course but-

“Damn it, Stiles!”  Peter growls, yanking his thigh away and leaving eight ragged rips in the cloth.  “I like these jeans!”

Stiles growls right back, sharp and deep and rumbling the way only a wolf can manage.  Peter goes motionless, staring back at Stiles, and Stiles can see the innate strength and tenacity in his human-wolf crystallize and brighten once more.

“No, you’re right, of course,” Peter murmurs, and fingers twine themselves into Stiles’ fur.  Stiles changes his growl to a rough purr.  His human-wolf smirks in return, already plotting again.  “If we want a job done, we might as well do it ourselves.  And we won’t even have a shortage of hands willing to help us this time.”

Stiles allows a wolfish grin.  Peter’s smirk widens.

Much better.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Stiles makes his own way to the clinic.  He doesn’t like it here – the mountain ash and wolfsbane and all kinds of other concoctions he can smell from the interior make his nose itch, there’s a couple dogs yapping away somewhere inside, and he can’t say he likes the owner of this establishment much either.  Or at all, really.  Maybe that’s at least partly because Peter doesn’t like him, but Peter is usually an accurate judge of character.  He may not _like_ that character, see flaws where others see virtues, but he’s accurate.

He stays outside until the others pull in.  Scott, Kira, and Isaac get out of one car; Derek gets out of the other.  Chris is already here, as is Deaton, if the other parked vehicles are anything to go by.

“Good morning, Stiles,” Kira greets when she sees him, dimpling a slightly strained smile at him.  She’s the only one.  Scott and Isaac have their heads together, muttering about Allison.  Isaac’s eyes bleed gold but his shoulders hunch under the crimson flash he gets in return.  Neither glances at Stiles as they let themselves into the clinic.  Derek stalks after them without looking at him either.

Stiles bumps his nose against Kira’s leg, dipping his head when she holds the door open for him.  Her smile tips up a little more, just for a moment.

Inside, Chris and Deaton are already arguing, voices pitched low but heated.  Well, Chris’ is.  Deaton looks and sounds as calm as that Chinese fat guy Stiles has read about in those books back when Peter introduced him to the concept of religion.  (Stiles’ interest didn’t last long.)

He can see why Peter can’t stand the magic-man though.  He’s just that type of infuriating.

“Where’s Lydia and Cora?”  Isaac is the one to bring up.  There are shrugs all around.  Nobody asks where Peter is, and the meeting starts without them.

The next half hour is spent arguing over the pros and cons of going through with the exchange, back and forth, back and forth.  Stiles watches every minute tick by, watches Isaac sulk by the wall, watches Derek scowl a few feet away, watches Kira pipe up every now and then with her opinion, watches Chris snarl, watches Deaton’s words reel Scott in to heel.

He keeps his eyes on the Hales’ triskele urn all the while, sitting innocently on the counter.  Stiles almost thinks he can hear angry, desperate whispering coming from inside.

“She’s my daughter!”  Chris finally snaps, looking one step away from killing everyone in the room, grey-blue eyes gone so cold they almost look see-through.  “Why is this even up for debate?  If anyone gets a say about what happens to her, it’s me!  Not some druid who likes to play with lives or a little brat playing leader!”  Those eyes turn nothing but icy condemnation on Scott.  “You want her death on your hands, Scott?”

Ooh, if Peter could hear this now.

“I’m not _killing_ her!”  Scott protests.  “But if we do this, the Nemeton might kill her anyway!  Or we might free the Nogitsune and it’ll possess someone and start killing people again!”

“You leave her the way she is, she’ll be dead in months anyway,” Chris snarls, teeth flashing with every biting word, so much wolf in him for a human who hunts those very same creatures.  “When will you learn, Scott – inaction doesn’t make you innocent.  Inaction kills just as much as if you slit her throat yourself.  You’ll have blood on your hands either way.  Just because you can’t see one doesn’t mean the splatters aren’t there.”

Scott flounders, looking lost even as he turns beseechingly to Deaton for guidance.

Stiles’ lips peel back in derision.  He can see why Peter can’t stand Scott either.

He gets to his feet and scoots around the group as another round of discussion begins.  Isaac is in the corner, back to the wall.  Derek hasn’t spoken much, occupying a different piece of wall, arms crossed, scowl firmly fixed on his face.  Kira is on the far side of the table, beside Scott, with Deaton on Scott’s other side.  Chris is opposite them, closest to the door.  He has his head down, hands white-knuckled on the edge of the table, regrouping for another assault as Deaton’s even tones pour into Scott’s attentive ears.  The hunter hasn’t given up, not by far, but he can probably see better than anyone that he’s losing ground, inch by hopeless inch.

Stiles brushes right up against his leg, unseen by the people above who all have a tendency of forgetting him sooner or later.  Chris tenses but doesn’t jump, only tucking his chin enough to meet Stiles’ gaze from under his arm.

Stiles lifts a paw and pats silently at the pouch of mountain ash Chris has at his waist.  Chris’ eyes go knife-sharp.  Stiles pats himself on the chest before swinging his head around in the direction of the urn.  The urn that’s currently sitting on the part of the table closest to Stiles.

When he looks back at Chris, it doesn’t look like the hunter is even breathing, he’s that still, every sense honed in on Stiles to an almost disturbing degree.

Then he exhales, a tiny, shaky thing that holds as much relief in it as Peter’s face did when he first saw Stiles again after seven long years apart, and then his expression firms, grim and resolute, and he nods, ever so slightly.

Stiles backs off a few steps and waits a few more minutes.  He watches Isaac slouch a bit more, watches Derek’s scowl deepen, watches Scott and Deaton angle towards each other and away from the door.

And then he springs.  One swipe of his paw sends the urn clattering to the floor, and then he has his teeth clamped around it and he’s barrelling out the door before anyone can do more than spin towards the noise, too startled to give chase.

There’s a bang of gunfire behind him, followed by a howl of pain and a bellow of “Scott!” and the whisper of mountain ash, and then the door slams shut, and a pause follows where Chris presumably does something to the door to buy them at least a few more precious seconds.  Then footsteps pound across cement after Stiles, who’s already waiting by the driver’s door of Chris’ car, and the moment Chris has it open, Stiles is scrambling in, growling when the hunter doesn’t immediately slide in after him.

“I know!”  Chris grunts, and then there are three consecutive shots.  Stiles looks out the windshield in time to see one wheel on each of the other three vehicles deflate, and then Chris is climbing into the car, starting it and peeling their way out of the parking lot before the door is even fully shut.

Clever.

“We need to pick up my daughter,” Chris tells him in clipped tones as they zoom down the street at speeds that have to be illegal, weaving in and out of the thankfully sparse traffic.

Stiles lets the urn drop from his jaws into the foot well below before shaking his head.  Chris frowns at him and runs a red light.  “What?  We need her at the site of the Nemeton-”

Stiles barks this time and shakes his head again.

Chris frowns for a few seconds longer before his expression clears.  “That’s where the others are.  Lydia, Cora, and Peter already have her.”

Stiles nods and lets his teeth show.  A shadow of a smile graces Chris’ own face briefly even as he takes a sharp left, heading directly for the Preserve.  “Thank you.”

Stiles whuffs out a breath through his nose and turns to stare out the window, ears pricking to the sound of a distant baying howl.

It’s not over yet.

 

* * *

 

Chris screeches them to a halt as close to the treeline as possible, and they make the rest of the way on foot, with the urn tucked under the hunter’s arm.

Stiles runs on ahead, circling back twice to keep Chris within his line of sight before going on ahead, racing into the clearing where the Nemeton is just as Peter and Cora, having heard him coming, are backing away from the stump where they’ve laid out Allison’s physical body.  Allison herself is hovering above it, frightened but determined, and Lydia is already chanting away in Archaic Latin.

Chris arrives moments later and sprints for the Nemeton, placing the urn beside his daughter and lingering for only a second, one hand sweeping back a few stray wisps of Allison’s hair, before he’s hurrying back to the tree where Stiles, Peter, and Cora are already huddled, with Lydia standing beside them, the tome open in her hands, her voice rising in tandem with the sudden, unnatural wind that kicks up in the clearing, rapidly escalating to a shriek as the Nemeton itself begins to pulse with the phantom shadows of the sweeping boughs it must once have had.

Stiles gets one more glimpse of Allison’s white face before she winks out of existence, and something begins to scream.  He flinches, ears flattening back, and the only reason he doesn’t twist around and sink his fangs into the hand at his scruff is because it belongs to Peter.

“What’s wrong?”  Peter has to yell to be heard over the noise.

Stiles doesn’t answer.  He doesn’t have time to because in the next second, Lydia’s chanting ends, the wind rises to a thunderous roar, and a burst of energy originating from the Nemeton throws them all off their feet.

For a long, disorienting moment, Stiles can’t even tell which way is up and which way is down.  He loses track of Peter but their pack bond tells him his human-wolf is safe.  He struggles to his feet, sinking his claws into the ground to keep from being pushed back even further.

The screaming still rings in his ears, unending in its agony, and the longer Stiles looks in the direction of the Nemeton, the more he can make out – the fluttering white of Allison’s gown, the shattered pieces of the urn, and the four-legged nine-tailed creature wrapped in dark root-like tendrils slowly being consumed by the tree.

The last is where the screaming’s coming from.

Another flash of white draws his attention away – Allison, back in her body and crawling away from the stump as best she can in her weakened state.  Another black tendril snags her by the ankle, and she goes down with a cry that’s swallowed by the roaring wind.

Stiles is moving before he can think twice about it.  He plunges forward against the violent force beating through the clearing, clawing his way towards the girl-pup.  He gets buffeted to the left and almost knocked off his feet again, and by the time he manages to angle himself back on course, Allison’s already halfway back on the stump, lashing out feebly against the Nemeton to no avail.

Her nails lose their purchase in the dirt just as Stiles reaches her, and it’s instinct to snap down on the tendril attached to Allison’s ankle.  That it shreds between his jaws is a relief, and then he’s wriggling underneath the pup, snarling impatiently until she gets with the program and throws her arms and legs around him, clambering onto his back.  Stiles would forcibly drag her but what she’s wearing would only tear between his teeth if he tried.

He carries her eight laboured steps away before something catches Stiles’ back leg and _yanks_.  Stiles goes skidding backwards, but not before a sharp roll of his shoulders and a buck of his entire body dislodges Allison and tosses her off in the general direction of where Peter and the others should be.

Then he’s twisting around and fighting for his life, clawing wildly at the tendril locked around his leg, as feral and relentless as he used to be every time someone or something tried to capture or kill him on his journey across the country.

He closes his teeth around it and pulls free just as he’s hauled back to the base of the stump again, but not before he’s flung to the side, sending him crashing straight into the bulk of the Nogitsune.

Stiles howls when he feels claws sink into him, a set in his side, another in his back, and a heavy and cloying presence pressing down on top of him.  The screaming that he’s been doing his best to ignore now shrills right into his ears.

A bolt of pure rage courses through Stiles’ pack bond with Peter, laced with a soul-deep sort of terror, and it’s enough to give Stiles the strength to flip the Nogitsune off, snarling into its face when he finds pitch black eyes glaring back.

“I’m not going back!”  It screams even though Stiles can’t make out any definition of a mouth, only glimpses of teeth in the solid shadows that make up the fox.  “I’m not going back in there!  You’ll have to kill me first!  _I’m not going back in there!_ ”

It surges up, almost throwing Stiles off before Stiles has it pinned again against the stump.

 _This could work_ , he thinks, and then he _bites_ , clamping down around the Nogitsune’s neck and – with one jerk of his head – rips the fox’s throat out.

The silence that falls next is so abrupt and absolute that it takes Stiles a few moments to realize what has happened.

Blood stains his muzzle, dripping from his mouth.  He takes a step back, then another, stumbling off the stump and leaving the Nogitsune’s carcass behind.

A breeze whistles through the clearing, gentler this time if not entirely natural either.  Stiles lifts his head and breathes.  Cleansing too, perhaps, and the clearing no longer looks half as dark.  When he glances back at the Nemeton, he can see the Nogitsune’s blood draining into the stump.

“Stiles!”

It’s all the warning he has before Peter almost bowls him over in his haste to check him over, dropping to his knees next to Stiles and frantically patting him down for injuries.

“I never took you for the reckless sort!”  Peter hisses, glowering at the claw marks from the Nogitsune like they’re a personal offense.

Stiles snorts.

“What am I saying,” Peter mutters, producing a handkerchief to wipe the blood from Stiles’ muzzle.  “Of course you’re reckless.  You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”

“What did you do?!”

Peter rolls his eyes so hard Stiles is surprised he doesn’t strain something.  When they both turn, Scott is just picking himself up from the ground, Isaac, Kira, and Derek scattered around him.

A few feet away, Chris has a very much alive Allison wrapped in a hug, and Lydia’s planted right next to her, their hands joined, eyes suspiciously wet.  Cora’s leaning against a nearby tree, flexing a clawed hand, eyeballing Scott.

“A sacrifice for the Nemeton,” Peter says as he rises to his feet.  “A proper one.  It’ll tide the Nemeton over.”

He glances down at Stiles.  _For a while_.

“So- So it won’t kill anyone now?”  Scott asks nervously, wincing a little when he puts weight on his left leg.

Peter quirks an eyebrow at the motion.  “No.  Something wrong with your knee, Scott?”

Scott’s expression morphs into a scowl as he turns to Chris.  “He shot me!”

Chris hands his daughter off to Lydia before meeting Scott’s betrayed look with a stony one of his own.  “You were debating over whether or not you would let my daughter live.  You’re lucky I didn’t put a bullet in your head, boy.”

Scott flushes, and his eyes dart over to where Lydia is curled protectively around Allison before he musters mulishly, “I wasn’t going to _kill her!_   She’s my friend!  But she might still have woken up from the coma on her own.  And Deaton said it was to protect the town.  We didn’t know if the ritual would even work!  It could’ve killed all of us!”

Chris sighs, apparently giving Scott up as a bad job and turning to Lydia and Allison instead.  “Let’s get you back to the hospital, Allison.”

He and Lydia help her to her feet before Chris simply scoops her up into his arms.  It’s telling that Allison doesn’t even complain.

Scott watches them leave with blatant hurt on his face before he rounds on Stiles and Peter again, accusation puffing him up.  “You _killed_ the Nogitsune!  Even if we went through with this, we were just supposed to lock it up again!”

This time, with Peter pinching the bridge of his nose like their resident True Alpha is literally giving him a migraine just by existing, it’s Stiles who heaves a weary sigh and begins limping for home.  He looks at the Nemeton as he passes by.  The Nogitsune’s body is gone.

A thousand-year-old entity, properly sacrificed.  That should feed the Nemeton for a while.

Peter falls into step beside him.  Cora saunters after them a few steps behind.

They leave the McCall Pack in the clearing to sort themselves out.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, there’s a knock at the door.  Stiles doesn’t bother moving from where he’s sunning himself on his back in the living room.

What?  Just because he’s not a cat doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate the late afternoon sunshine.

He hears Peter answer the door.  Stiles recognizes the scents that enter the house.  Also Peter’s annoyed tone of voice.

“Stiles, you have guests,” Peter grouches, and Stiles rolls over to find Chris pushing a wheelchair-bound Allison into the room, Lydia behind them.

“Stiles,” Lydia sits herself elegantly in the seat closest to where Stiles is lying.  She doesn’t try and touch Stiles’ belly, which Stiles appreciates, but she gives his ears an affectionate rub, and Stiles nuzzles her hand in return before finally sitting up to blink enquiringly at the two Argents.

“Hi, Stiles,” Allison’s voice is weaker than her spirit self but her smile is infinitely brighter, and her colour is much healthier-looking.  “We just came to say hello.  And thank you, for saving my life.”

Stiles makes a gruff sound at the back of his throat before glancing at Peter, who shrugs and smirks and generally basks in Stiles’ embarrassment.

Wonderful.  Why did he spend so many seasons tracking down this horrible human-wolf again?

He turns back to Allison, grumbles under his breath, and then rises to his feet and pads over to the girl-pup, huffing a long-suffering sigh when she leans forward to hug him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Peter straighten, a brief downward twist to his mouth.

Serves the bastard right.  But…

Stiles sighs again and tugs himself away from Allison.  She’s no longer a spirit and alone, and therefore no longer in need of comfort.

Allison blinks at him, surprised, just as Lydia observes shrewdly, “Stiles doesn’t let anyone except me, Peter, and Cora hug him.  And he’s known Peter and Cora for years.”

“Oh.”  Allison looks at Lydia, then back at Stiles.  In the end, she doesn’t say a word about all the hugs Stiles allowed her to have when she was still invisible to everyone else, though the ear-rub she gives him does seem a little wistful.

“We’ll be staying for dinner,” Lydia announces, smiling sweetly in Peter’s direction.

Peter’s lip curls.  “Will you?  And where is this dinner coming from?”

“I’ll cook,” Chris speaks for the first time since they arrived.  His smile is equal parts sardonic and amused.  “I even bought the groceries.”

Before Peter can shoot back a reply, the sound of the front door opening makes them all look around.

“I’m back!”  Cora hollers.  “Did someone say dinner?  I’m starving!  I could eat Stiles!”

Stiles barks back, mildly affronted.  Cora bounces into the room, grinning.

Lydia claps her hands together.  “Looks like it’s decided!”

The banshee takes over Allison’s wheelchair.  Chris treks out to get the groceries.  Cora wanders over to the other two girls.

Peter squats down beside Stiles, petulant as a child if his expression is anything to go by.

Stiles licks his nose.  Peter bats him away.

“Just this once,” Peter growls.  “And it better be five-star.”

Stiles chuffs out a laugh at his human-wolf’s expense.

 

* * *

 

Chris sets aside a generous portion of rare steak for him.  Allison sneaks him mashed potatoes.  Peter snarks at the former over the dining table and keeps a suspicious but silent eye on the latter.  Lydia and Cora roll their eyes at each other a lot.

Stiles walks the Argents and Lydia out.  Cora’s already upstairs, never one for drawn-out goodbyes or even drawn-out goodnights.  Peter lurks in the doorway, watching them.

Lydia kisses him on the forehead before sliding into the backseat.  Chris carries Allison from wheelchair to car, where she then stoops over to kiss him as well before letting him go.

“Goodnight, Stiles,” She smiles before ducking into the car.  The door closes after her, leaving Chris standing outside with Stiles.

For a long minute, there’s only silence between them.  Stiles peers up at the hunter.  Chris stares back, blinking every once in a while.

And then he crouches down to Stiles’ height, and up close, it’s even more obvious how much of the stress has melted from the man’s features.  Even his shoulders look lighter, and it helps that he’s finally shaved and looks like he’s had more than an hour of sleep in the past week.

“I can’t really thank you enough,” Chris tells him quietly, like a secret, or a confession, long kept buried.  “Allison, she’s all I have left. I can’t lose her too.  And I know if it wasn’t for you, I would have.”

He pauses.  Stiles gets the feeling he’s not usually a man of many words, or even a man of heartfelt words.

“I don’t know how someone like you can exist,” The hunter finally says.  “You’re definitely not just a wolf.  But I don’t really care either.  Just… thank you for saving my daughter.”

Stiles cocks his head.  Then he swipes a tongue across Chris’ face, plenty satisfied by the startled expression now splashed across the man’s face.  Muffled giggles erupt from inside the car.  Peter snorts from the door.

Chris blinks and then cracks a slight smile.  It’s the most genuine one Stiles has ever seen on him.  The man reaches out, fingers stopping just short of Stiles’ nose.  Stiles closes the distance, but only to nudge the hand aside so he can lay his muzzle on the man’s shoulder.  Chris falters only for a second before he pats Stiles twice on the side of the neck, light and careful.

He doesn’t say anything else as he rises to his full height.  He nods at Stiles, nods at Peter, and then pulls the driver’s door open.

Stiles watches the taillights disappear into the distance before turning and making his way back to the house.

“Well, here’s to hoping your Argent quota is full for the month,” Peter gripes, not so subtly running a hand over the spot where Chris touched him.

Stiles rolls his eyes and herds his human-wolf back inside.

The door swings shut behind them.  The lights are already on.  Cora joins them in the living room with a book, stretching out along the couch.  Peter has his own as he settles on the opposite end.  Stiles hops up between them, arranging himself on top of Cora’s legs before planting his head in Peter’s lap.

He dozes off to the soft rustle of pages and the steady heartbeats of Pack around him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


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